


Contempt

by rosehips



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, Police Brutality, So yeah, a lot of fluff in the middle, because based on something that actually happened, canon-typical mentions of rape, my first Barisi fic :o, not connected to any particular episode but could take place somewhere in s17, some fluff in the beginning, very very little at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 03:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosehips/pseuds/rosehips
Summary: con·tempt | kən-ˈtem(p)t | (noun) — lack of respect or reverenceSome people have contempt for those who don’t deserve it; others have it for those who do. Barba runs into trouble when, being the latter, he faces off against a powerful group of people who are the former.Luckily, he's got someone on his side.Also known as, I tripped and fell into a Barisi hole, and also a lot of IRL cops are demons.





	Contempt

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for rape, police abuse of power, and an egregious miscarriage of justice. All, unfortunately, based on a true story. More details about that story at the end, which may be more triggering than the fic, so skip the end note if needed. 
> 
> Also, the summary of this piece is a blatant ripoff from @objectiveheartmuscle’s lovely piece “Coda” (http://archiveofourown.org/works/8671246/chapters/19877584).

Carisi is elbow-deep in paperwork when Rollins and Benson troop in from their day at court. He drops his pen immediately. Normally he’d be grateful for the interruption, but today their faces are kind of _terrifying_ \-- Benson looks incensed, while Rollins appears to be wheeling between shock, awe, and confusion. She collapses into her chair at the same time that Benson, phone to her ear, slams her office door closed. 

“ _Wow_ ,” Carisi says. “What happened? Did we lose the case?”

He hopes to God they didn’t -- he’s not on this one, but he’s heard enough from Rollins, who led the investigation, to know it’s bad. Really bad. A _fourteen-year-old girl gang-raped on the street_ kind of bad, _only one suspect found out of five_ kind of bad.

He’d been nauseated from the start by the fact that the one suspect was -- _is_ \-- a cop. They don’t know anything about the other four. Their jobs, their rap sheets, anything. Because they’re not in CODIS. Because the cop didn’t have the good sense to make a deal and rat them out. And that’s what Carisi can’t understand. The rape, the cruelty, he sees that every day, and he’s resigned to the fact that it will never be comprehensible to him. But what sticks sick in his throat this it was a cop who did this, someone sworn to serve and protect…  

The only thing that horrifies Carisi more is the idea that the victim might not get justice. That the one piece of shit they did catch might walk free. And he’d been _so sure_ Barba was gonna win this one.

Rollins rubs her eyes furiously. “Did we lose,” she repeats. “Hoo, boy.” She shakes her head.

“What does that mean?” Carisi demands.

She blows out a heavy breath and pauses, as if considering where to even start. “Okay. Remember the Evie Barnes case?”

With a sting of shame, he does. It had been one of his first with Manhattan SVU, and he hadn’t exactly gotten the hang of that whole _don’t blame the victim_ thing, and he still feels pretty shitty about that -- and grateful that she continues without waiting for his answer.

“Remember how Barba kinda lost it when the judge overturned that verdict? I mean, you weren’t in court that day, but -- ”

“No, I remember hearing about it,” Carisi says, leaning forward because she’s _really_ got his interest now. “He almost got held in contempt, right?”

“Yep,” she says, popping the _p_ loudly. “And today he really did it.”

Carisi gapes at her. “Wait, what?”

“He got _held in contempt._ By Judge Bertuccio. I mean, it happened in chambers.” She says this with a sigh, as if -- despite her horror at the fact that _their ADA_ got put in what’s basically Lawyer Jail -- she’s sorry to have missed the show. “But we could kinda see it coming.”

“Holy shit,” Carisi breathes out, literally on the edge of his seat, his paperwork forgotten. “Why, what _happened_?”

Rollins blows her bangs out of her eyes and shakes her head. “Well, for starters, Bertuccio declared a mistrial.”

“You’re kidding.”

She gives him a flat look. “I wish I was. There was a recess, and we saw some cops go in and talk to him. Not the ones who were there sitting on the perp's side of the gallery,” she adds, giving him a significant look. “I mean the big-wigs. I saw a _captain_. And when Bertuccio called everyone back into the courtroom -- bam.” She slaps her knee. “Mistrial.”

“But she’ll get to try again, right, take an appeal…?” Even as he floats the idea, Carisi has a sinking feeling in his chest. The victim is a _child_. She shouldn’t have had to go through any of this in the first place, and who _knows_ whether she’ll be able to stand starting from scratch. He’s not sure he could do it, if it were him in her place.

Rollins is thinking along the same lines. “I don’t know,” she says. “If she does, it won’t be Barba prosecuting. He flipped _out_ when Bertuccio called it, and then Bertuccio yelled at _him,_ and said to meet him in chambers with the defense. And Liv went over to the bench, you know, try to calm him down, and I don’t know what he said to her because she wouldn’t tell me? But she looked ready to raise hell.” Rollins steals another look at their boss’s door. “I think that’s what she’s doing now.”

“Uh,” Carisi says, nodding behind her, “I think she already has.”

Deputy Chief Dodds, face dark with anger, strides right past them without so much as a hello. When he goes into Benson’s office, he slams the door too.

“ _Wow_ ,” Carisi pronounces. “Wait, so how did you know Barba got -- ?”

“He texted Liv, apparently,” Rollins says, rolling her eyes. “I’m surprised they let him text at all, but it probably took them a while to pry that phone out of his hands.”

Carisi lets out a weak laugh, but inside he feels a twinge of jealousy. Why hadn’t Barba texted _him_?

“So where is he now?” he asks.

“Why, you wanna go be his lawyer?” Rollins smirks, but she’s only teasing. “He’s at the jailhouse by the court, I think.”

“ _Jailhouse?_ ” Carisi repeats. “You mean they got him locked up?”

She gives him a look. “Uh, yeah. That’s what happens when you get held in contempt. Come on, Carisi, even I know that, and _I_ never went to law school.”

Carisi ignores this dig as he fidgets in his seat. “Well, my shift is almost over,” he says slowly, watching Rollins turn towards her computer. He can’t tell if she actually doesn’t care about what he’s saying, or if she’s just pretending so that he’ll let more slip. He chastises himself for being so paranoid -- he really _has_ been, lately, about it -- but he still chooses his words carefully.

“I might head over there, then,” he says with as much nonchalance as he can muster. “Poor guy could probably use some support.”

Rollins shrugs. “Sure, if they let you see him. The judge was pissed that he talked to Liv, even.”

Carisi feels a twist of near-panic in his throat at the idea he won’t be able to see Barba at all, because that makes this whole situation seem _way_ scarier than it did a minute ago.

But when he gets to the station, the uni waves him in with hardly a second glance.

Carisi lets out a breath of relief. _Okay, this is fine_. Or it’s gonna be. As he walks towards the cells -- which are all empty, which, thank God this happened on a Monday night, right? Because he can’t _imagine_ Barba stuck in here with the perverts and the drunks and the brawlers -- nah, this? It’s not so bad. He’s starting to actually see some humor in the situation. Barba, normally all prim and proper, totally out of his element? Carisi’s kind of into it.

Barba, though, is clearly _not_ into it.

This much is clear when Carisi comes upon him in the last holding cell, where he’s sitting on the far bench with his head in his hands. His hair is actually _messy,_ and the sight makes Carisi’s palms itch. It’s a sobering image, the ADA so beat down, but then Carisi knocks at the one of the bars and the metallic noise makes the other man look up, and okay, Barba is definitely _not_ beat down. If anything, he was only taking a breather, and it must have worked, because he’s got that scrappy look, like there’s a lot of fight left in him.

It makes Carisi smile.

“You need me to bail you out, Counselor?” he teases.

Barba huffs out a laugh just short of bitter, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “On _your_ salary? Please.”

“You gotta at least let me pay for dinner, then,” Carisi grins. “If you get out in time to make our reservation.”

This earns him a downright _pissy_ look as Barba stands and begins to stalk around the little cell.

“All you gotta do is apologize, right?” Carisi prods. That’s what he remembers from Fordham, at least, and yeah, he may have done some light Googling on his way over, and nothing online contradicted that understanding, so…

Barba’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. “It should be the judge who has to apologize,” he mutters by way of an answer. “Don’t give me that _look_ , Sonny,” he snaps, jabbing a finger at the detective. “You didn’t hear him. You would’ve done the same as me, if it had been you on the bench.” He pauses his pacing. “You would’ve done _worse,_ actually, because you lack my restraint.”

Carisi barks out an incredulous laugh. “You’re behind bars for cursin’ out a judge and you’re saying _you_ have restraint? C’mon, Raf. Just apologize. I’m hungry, I don’t want to miss dinner.”

“I didn’t _curse at him,_ ” Barba insists. “Not _once_ did I use profanity. You see? Restraint.”

“You keep avoiding the question,” Carisi presses.

“What question.” Barba’s voice is flat: a warning. _Don’t ask again,_ is what he means.

But that’s not fair.

“When are you gonna apologize so we can get outta here?”

“I don’t know,” Barba says petulantly, crossing his arms. “It may be a while. I want to make a point.”

“Jesus, you sound like the Lieutenant,” groans Carisi. “Aren’t you supposed to be the pragmatist?”

“Maybe I’ve finally succumbed to her terrible influence,” Barba replies. “Actually, the terrible influence of the entire squad, _including_ you -- yes, _you;_ you have no right to call _me_ impractical, the way you run around demanding warrants and legal favors based exclusively on gut feelings and wild hunches and blind trust in victims.”

Carisi closes in his eyes and sucks in a breath. _No point in losing my temper too,_ he tells himself, and tries to think about how a year from now this will be a _really great story,_ like, one he’ll _love_ to tell, and while the thought isn’t enough to make him smile it does calm him down a bit.

“You know,” Carisi advises, “ad hominem attacks aren’t generally admissible. You can’t just win an argument by insulting me.” He wishes he could have delivered that retort with the cool, devastating tone Barba might use. Instead he just sounds like a total dork.

But Barba seems to like that, because he’s smiling -- or at least he was, until his face drops into the kind of embarrassed look that Carisi privately thinks should have been there all along, given the situation. Carisi turns to see what’s changed Barba’s expression. _Holy shit._ It’s _Rita Calhoun._

Gaping, he turns back to Barba. “You called a _lawyer_? You called _her_? She’s a defense attorney!”

“Yes,” Barba says dryly. “That’s exactly _why_ I called her. I spend a quarter of my job hoping perps don’t call a lawyer; I have the sense to know it’s the first thing you _should_ do when you get into these kinds of… situations. If you’re smart.”

“Smart?” Calhoun repeats, coming to a halt beside Carisi. “That’s ambitious.”

She doesn’t miss it when Carisi shuffles away a bit -- it’s nothing personal, not really; she just makes him feel kind of _shabby._ And he doesn’t trust her. Or like her. Or like that Barba called her. Okay, so it’s personal.

Hands on her hips, Calhoun tilts her head to the side, appraising Barba, who looks rightfully abashed.

“Now that I’m here, I’m not so sure I want to help you get out of this,” she says, and Carisi doesn’t like the edge of flirtatiousness in her voice. “I like the look of you behind bars.”

“Rita,” Barba grits out. “I’m _paying_ you.”

“That you are,” she sighs, and turns to Carisi. “I need a moment with my client, Detective.”

It’s not a request, and Carisi gives Barba a sour look before he goes. He gets some petty satisfaction from the fact that Barba can’t quite meet his eyes.

Expecting a long wait, Carisi heads back to the front room and collapses into a metal chair, not bothering to pull in the sprawl of his legs because the place is empty except for him, and a uni at the front desk who’s trying to look disinterested, and _jeez_ this chair is uncomfortable. Carisi would feel sorry for all the people who have to sit here in cuffs, except he figures most of them are guilty and probably deserve it, but he hopes for his own sake that _he_ won’t be here for hours --

Calhoun walks out, Barba by her side.

It’s been less than ten minutes.

“What the hell, Barba?” Carisi squawks, jumping to his feet as the ADA approaches him. Calhoun shoots over a disapproving look, which Carisi ignores. “You were only in there for, what, two seconds? How come you have to hire someone to tell you exactly what I told you, and as soon as they do, you agree and do what I was sayin’ all along?”

“Shut up, Carisi,” Barba replies, but his voice is so soft, and _grateful,_ somehow? -- that Carisi immediately does so.

He’s not even annoyed that Barba’s look of gratitude multiplies tenfold when Calhoun hands him his phone. If anything, he’s amazed that Barba had managed to speak to him at all; the guy musta gone into shock, having it taken away, and he’s probably been going through withdrawals this whole time.

Calhoun keeps one eye on them as she speaks quietly with the uni, who then gets on the phone. Barba’s hunched over his cell, tapping away furiously, and he’s also tapping his foot, and Carisi wants to rub his back reassuringly but there’s no getting away with that right now.

His stomach twists when he thinks of the fact that if this (whatever they’ve got going here, and he thinks they’ve got something good, and he knows Barba thinks so too because Barba _basically_ admitted it on their last date)… if this goes on much longer, they’re going to disclose. Carisi would have been inclined to wait a while longer, except he knows Barba’s technically right, making this call. Still, part of him worries that they’ll be jumping the gun, jinxing themselves, by disclosing after only a few dates.

He'd said as much to Barba when they first discussed it, and, as he'd expected, Barba immediately laid out a multi-point argument: “With our schedules, five dates will mean nearly two months, at _least_ ; we'll already be seeing each other most days for work, which doesn't help" -- he'd plowed right over Carisi's protests, continuing to tick off points on his long, lovely fingers -- "especially because we work with _detectives_ , and they'll be suspicious,  _if_ they haven't already figured it out by then; the consequences of not disclosing soon enough are…” Barba had given a shudder that was only a little over-dramatic. “ _Not_ anything either of us want to deal with,” he’d said, “and finally, it'll be easier -- it _will_ be,” he stated firmly at Carisi's disbelieving look. “No sneaking around, no lying.” He’d looked at Carisi through narrowed eyes, before continuing thoughtfully: “You know, for someone who does well undercover, you really are _terrible_ at lying to your coworkers.”

Then he'd let out a sigh, though that could have been caused by Carisi’s lips on his neck as much as by the admission he was resigned to make: “I suppose it'll get easier moreso for me than for you,” he'd murmured; “I won't have to deal with teasing from _all_ of them. Only Benson. I tremble to think -- ”

“ -- So stop thinking,” Carisi had told him, and although that was, of course, impossible, Barba _did_ shut up, which was fine, because he didn't exactly stop using his mouth, and also because Carisi had been thoroughly convinced.

Which was why Carisi had expressed his doubts in the first place: to be convinced.

After all, he aims to be calling Barba his boyfriend by the time they hit their fourth date (tonight was _supposed_ to be their third), and he has to admit that if you’re calling someone your boyfriend then you probably _should_ disclose, especially if your boyfriend is a tightly wound, by-the-book ADA.

Anyway.

They’re not at that point (yet), so there’s no touching right now. Instead Carisi sits again and is grateful when Barba plops down in the chair next to him, even though he ignores Carisi in favor of answering emails on his phone. Carisi peers over his shoulder to see what’s got him typing away so intently.

“Nosy,” Barba accuses Carisi, tilting his phone so the detective can’t see the screen. He’s smiling. Just barely. But he’s smiling.

Carisi can’t hold back a full-sized grin in response, so, okay, maybe Barba was right about the whole restraint thing. Or lack thereof.

“I was just checking the time,” he lies, which earns him Barba’s extremely pointed stare at Carisi’s Apple Watch. “It doesn’t work so good down here,” Carisi protests. That much is true, but only of the internet and calendar notifications, not the actual time of day, but Barba doesn’t need to know that.

Carisi lowers his voice close to a whisper. “I was checking the _time_ ,” he repeats, “to see whether we can still make our reservation.”

“You’re going to have to let that one go, I’m afraid,” Barba sighs, and he does sound truly aggrieved, though Carisi’s pretty sure at least half of that unhappiness has to do with missing out on a place with two -- _two!_ \-- Michelin stars.

Then Barba twitches away, but it's too late: even from across the room, Calhoun has clearly noticed how close they'd been, how naturally they'd leaned towards each other. She raises an elegant eyebrow, and Barba shakes his head minutely, and she rolls her eyes and turns away. Carisi is a little resentful, and a lot surprised, that they know each other well enough to have a whole conversation without opening their mouths.

The uni hangs up the phone and says something to Calhoun, who turns back to them with a smooth smile. “You're free to go, Barba,” she announces.

 _Finally_ pocketing his phone, Barba stands with a sigh and Carisi scrambles out of his chair to follow.

“My office tomorrow?” Barba asks, and it takes Carisi a second to realize the ADA isn't inviting him.

Rita shakes her head. “Let's not discuss this in a government building any more than we already have,” she says wryly. “You can come to mine. One o’clock.”

Carisi opens his mouth to ask why the hell they need to meet again at all, then shuts it, remembering the look on Benson’s face earlier, and Chief Dodds, and the mistrial, and yeah -- this is probably _not_ something Barba will want to talk about now.

No, definitely not: Barba's face is twisted in disgust. “I don't want to meet _there_ ,” he grouses at Calhoun.

Her eye roll is impressive but it’s got nothing on the ones Barba dishes out, Carisi thinks.

“You worked there long enough,” Calhoun reminds Barba. “You’re not allergic to the place. I'm sure you won't drop dead just from walking through the door.”

“We'll see about that,” Barba grumbles, and Carisi has _so many questions_ now, but no time to ask, because Barba's signing his release paperwork with a flourish, and now they're on their way to the elevators. “They” being Barba and Calhoun; Carisi’s treading at their heels, feeling a bit like a mutt puppy tagging along behind two full-grown wolves.

It's not a good feeling.

They all stand in silence as the elevator takes them up to the ground floor. Carisi's a bit thrown to see it's gotten dark since he'd came in the building. He hadn't realized they'd been in there so long, or -- as they step out onto the sidewalk -- that it was gonna be so freakin’ _cold_ tonight. Barba shivers, and Carisi automatically puts an arm around him.

Barba goes stiff as a board.

_Well, shit._

Calhoun only sighs as she tugs on soft leather gloves that look like they cost more than Carisi's entire suit.

“For the brief period you're blessed to have me as your legal counsel,” she says to Barba, “you may actually be inclined to take my advice. This --” she gestures at the two of them, her hand a graceful wave -- “had better be sanctioned already.” She shakes her head with oddly fond incredulity when Barba's face tells her otherwise. “By tomorrow, then,” she tells him.

Carisi is getting indignant at this, being treated like he's invisible, until Calhoun turns to him and he immediately changes his mind and _wishes_ he were.

“Good luck with him, Detective,” she says with a smile that somehow isn't mocking. “You'll need it. But I suppose you already know that.”

“Goodnight, Rita,” Barba says loudly, and she laughs as she walks away.

Very belatedly, Carisi realizes he's still got his arm around Barba's shoulder. But when he moves to drop it, the other man glares at him.

“Don't bother,” Barba says, leaning into Carisi's side and managing to make the movement a judgmental one. He bends back over his phone, then lets out what’s probably the millionth groan he's issued tonight. “Fifteen-minute wait for a Lyft,” he fumes. “We may as well _walk_.”

He says this as if it’s a great injustice, but to Carisi it sounds wonderful. Especially because he knows, without having to ask, that Barba means _walk back to my place,_ where Carisi fully intends to spend the night. He slides his arm down to link it with Barba’s, and feels a thrill of delight when the other man doesn’t yank away.

“So did they take a mugshot?” Carisi asks, knocking his shoulder playfully into Barba’s as they stroll down the street. “Your face gonna be all over the papers tomorrow?”

Barba rolls his eyes. “My face, maybe. But no, they did not _take a mugshot_.” Carisi is pretty sure Barba would have made air quotes around the word if Carisi didn’t have his arm trapped. Barba shakes his head. “I don’t know what they taught you at Fordham, but being held in civil contempt isn’t a crime, Carisi.”

“What, no ‘Sonny’ for me now?”

“I can switch back to ‘Detective,’ if you like,” Barba warns.

“Maybe you should,” Carisi grins, “‘cause I got a _lot_ of questions.”

“I’m sure you do,” Barba complains under his breath. He doesn’t sound like he’ll put up with any pestering about whatever happened in court, so Carisi brings up the second most pressing matter on his mind. 

“First of all, _holy cow_ \-- you used to work with Rita Calhoun? Were you a defense attorney?”

“Absolutely not,” Barba snaps, sounding as if Carisi has accused him of murder. “I worked _in the building._ ” He expels a hot breath, which fogs the air in front of them before disappearing into the cold night. “ _Briefly_ ,” he adds, “for a corporate firm. Then I went to the DA’s office, which is where _she_ had the sense to go right after graduating. I had the sense to stay. She chose to sell out.”

He glances sideways at Carisi. “Don’t use those words when you talk to her, by the way,” Barba warns him, as if Carisi would ever have any kind of conversation with Calhoun. “She gets angry when you accuse her of doing it all for the money. But only because it’s true.”

“Huh,” Carisi responds. It’s about all he can muster, and they walk in silence for a few minutes.

“So…” Carisi begins, then pauses. “You guys went to school together too, right?,” he asks, and Barba hums an assent. “So you, like, know each other pretty well then?”

Barba looks up, appraising him. He sighs, facing ahead again as they pass under a streetlamp, then another. “If you’re asking whether used to sleep together, Sonny, the answer is yes. If you’re asking whether we were ever _romantically_ involved, the answer is _no_.”

Carisi is pink-faced before Barba has finished even the first of these sentences. “Wow,” he says, “uh, okay. Wow. I mean, it’s not like -- it’s just, she’s so --”

“Out of my league?” Barba supplies with a smirk, and that is _not_ what Carisi had been expecting him to say.

“What?!” Carisi sputters. “What? No, why would you think --”

Barba laughs. _At_ him, not with him, Carisi’s pretty sure. “I don’t think that,” Barba admits, “although I used to.”

“Is that why you called her?” Carisi asks. What he really means is _why didn’t you call me?,_ and he’s pretty sure Barba hears that as clearly as if he’d said it out loud.

He’s both relieved and disappointed when Barba doesn’t respond to that second, silent question.

“I _called_ her because I didn’t want to get disbarred, and I knew she’d make sure that didn’t happen.”

Carisi stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, jolting out of their comfortable arm-in-arm connection. A woman walking her dog almost bumps into him and shoots him a dirty look for her trouble, but he’s oblivious -- _disbarred?_

“What do you mean?” he demands. “I thought -- you get held in contempt, you just apologize, right? Or, sometimes they make you pay a fine?”

Barba’s got his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and he rocks back on his heels slightly as he looks upwards, away from Carisi’s face, like he’s here to examine the streetlights rather than to tell his boyfriend -- partner -- whoever -- that his _entire career,_ and by extension, because it’s _Barba_ , basically his _entire life,_ had been at risk.

Suddenly the idea of Barba in a cage -- of Barba having to stand for a mugshot -- none of it is funny anymore.

“Usually,” Barba eventually answers. “The term, I believe, is that ‘you hold the keys to your own cell.’ Apologize, pay up, get out. Unless you’ve really fucked up.” Now he meets Carisi’s eyes, and there’s a challenge on his face, like he’s daring Carisi to make the mistake of questioning him further.

Carisi has never done well resisting a dare, and he’s pretty sure Barba hasn’t either, so he plunges right along.

“So what the hell _did_ you do, then?”

Barba shakes his head. “I meant it, earlier. When I said Bertuccio should be the one to apologize.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well you’re going to have to take it as one, because I’m not at liberty to discuss this further with you.”

“Not at liberty to discuss -- come on, Raf.” Carisi is about to roll his eyes, certain Barba’s being over-dramatic, but then he catches the look on the ADA’s face and realizes he’s not exaggerating.

“Look, it’s not just you,” Barba relents. “I can’t talk about this with anyone on the force. At all." 

“But Rollins said you told Lieu --”

Barba makes a dismissive noise. “I needed to give her a heads up. And that was _before_ Bertuccio read me the riot act. So.”

Carisi takes a moment to chew this over.

“So, it’s something to do with cops,” he speculates aloud. “And to do with the trial.” His eyes widen. “Wait, were they -- were they _all_ cops _,_ all five of them, who did -- who did _that_ to her? Is that why there was a captain there?” He feels sick when he realizes the implications: “They’re trying to cover it up. So you warned Lieu, and she called Chief Dodds… Barba, Jesus, this is _bad_.”

Barba scrubs at his face. “This,” he declares, almost to himself, “is why I should not be dating a detective.”

“So that’s a yes.” Carisi can’t even enjoy being right, because fellow officers are responsible for the _gang-rape_ of a _child_ \-- for forming a conspiracy to cover it up -- the guys who did it were probably the exact guys who ran the semen samples through CODIS themselves, he thinks. Probably saw their own names come up in the system, and deleted the evidence with the push of a button. Carisi has pride in, even reverence for, the badge he carries and the oath he took. But these guys -- his supposed brothers-in-arms -- they only care about the guns, and the power that comes with them.

It makes him sick. And it makes him _ashamed_.

The one, bitter satisfaction is this: they showed their hand. Couldn’t let one of their own get put away even if it meant the other four going free. So they’re trying to get him off somehow, and now Barba knows, which means the DA is gonna know, which means they’re not gonna get away with it. Are they?

Too upset to stay still, Carisi tugs gently at Barba's hand, and they start walking again, fingers loosely linked.

“How much did you tell Liv?” he asks quietly. “And what happened after, in chambers?”

Barba shakes his head. “I _really_ can't talk about this,” he says, and Carisi thinks he's going to leave it at that, and is prepared to reluctantly respect that decision, but Barba follows it up with “Not out here.”

They walk in silence the last several blocks to Barba's apartment, Carisi holding his hand more tightly along the way. As before, they ride the elevator in silence, but this time they stand much closer. Carisi watches the floors tick their familiar way up as Barba’s hand traces idle patterns across his back.

It’s almost enough to relax him.

But his heart stays right where it is, lodged in his throat, because he can’t stop thinking about that little girl, and whatever Barba said defending her that got him thrown in a cell.

Barba can’t feel much better, because almost as soon as they get in the door he pours them each a finger of scotch, and takes a small sip from his glass. He frowns when he catches Carisi giving him a weak smile. “ _What_ ,” he asks flatly.

“Nothing,” Carisi denies, the smile dropping from his face. “Just -- ‘restraint.’ I'd be knockin’ that back if I was you.”

“Well, thank you for that pep talk,” Barba snarks. “I feel _much_ more optimistic now.”

“Sorry,” Carisi says sheepishly. He wants to prod Barba into telling him whatever he’s going to tell him, but it’s clear the ADA needs a minute, so he gives it to him.

Barba shuts his eyes and leans against the counter, one arm folded protectively across himself and the other, drink in hand, resting on the ledge behind him. He lets out a slow breath, and Carisi feels a pang: it feels like every few minutes, since he came to Barba earlier, he’s been seeing more and more of the toll today has taken on the guy. He wonders how much more unhappiness will reveal itself in Barba before the night is done. And, if he’s being honest, Carisi feels touched -- privileged, even -- that Barba is allowing himself to be so vulnerable in his company.

“You were right,” Barba says quietly. “They were cops. All five of them.” He opens his eyes and takes another sip of scotch, grimaces as he swallows. “But that’s not why Bertuccio called a mistrial. At least, that’s not the whole reason.” He gestures vaguely towards the couch, and Carisi follows him there, sinking into the soft cushions beside Barba.

Carisi automatically rests his arm along the back of the couch to rub Barba’s neck and relieve some of the tension there. Briefly, he wonders at the fact that this small gesture has become _automatic_ so quickly, after only about a month together -- is it because he’d been imagining this so long before they ever began, practicing it in his head? Or just that it feels so unbelievable, getting to touch Barba like this, sweet and casual, that he _has_ to do it, to remind himself it’s real?

Either way, Barba seems to appreciate it as much as Carisi does, because he sighs and leans into Carisi’s hand like a cat, twisting his neck back and forth a bit before setting his glass on the book-stacked coffee table and leaning back to sink deeper into the couch.

“Rollins was right,” he says, and it takes Carisi a second to catch up. “There was a captain there. I don’t know…” Barba hesitates. “It’s not clear yet, whether he was one of the rapists, or whether he’s just pulling some _thin blue line_ bullshit --” He pauses when Carisi bristles slightly at the contempt with which he spits out the words, but Barba doesn’t apologize. “Regardless. He’s filing charges. Against the victim. For _\--_ " his voice turns to poison -- " _making a false report_.”

Carisi’s hand drops from Barba’s neck. “Wait, _what_?”

Barba nods grimly. “The captain ‘respectfully requested’ that Judge Bertuccio declare a mistrial so that this case doesn’t _interfere_ with the charges they’re bringing against her. And Judge Bertuccio obliged.”

Carisi downs the rest of his scotch and wishes for more, because it’s not enough to burn away the bitter taste in his mouth, but he doesn’t want to get up and go to the kitchen because he doesn’t want to leave the solid, warm weight of Barba beside him, and Barba doesn’t look like he wants to be left, either.

Instead, Carisi sets his glass down next to Barba’s, and rests his elbows on his knees, letting his head hang down as he stares at the floor. “So what did you say?” His voice is hoarse.

Barba shakes his head. “To Liv? I told her what I knew at that time. That Bertuccio called a mistrial because of something some captain said, and I didn’t know what. I think she probably had a better idea about it than I did, in the moment. She knows more about the guy. Which is unfortunate for her.” He smiles a bitter, vengeful smile. “And for him, now, too.”

“Yeah, she looked pretty pissed when she came into the station,” Carisi tells him. “So did Dodds.”

Barba nods once, sharply. “Good.”

“What did you say to the judge?” Carisi asks after a moment, and Barba snorts.

“Well,” he says. “First, _he_ told _me_ why he’d called the mistrial.” Barba rubs his face, then looks at Carisi, who lifts his head to see him better. “You’ll understand,” Barba says, “how egregious this was, when I tell you that the _defense attorney_ was surprised.”

Carisi lets out what could, maybe, pass as a laugh.

“And then. Well.” Barba leans his head back to stare at his ceiling. “Well,” he repeats, “I said my piece.”

“Yeah?” Carisi encourages.

“Uh, _yeah_. I told him it was insane to bring charges against a victim for a false report when she was found with multiple semen samples on her body, which is proof of a crime in and of itself _because she’s a minor,_ and couldn’t consent to sex of _any_ kind. I told him he was making a massive overstep that disrespected the court of law itself.” Barba’s voice is low with fury before it breaks into another bitter laugh.

“I think,” he continues wryly, “Bertuccio was most offended by that last part. The attack on him. Not what happened to that little girl.” He shakes his head. “Whatever the case, he didn’t like _any_ of it. So…” he gestures vaguely. “Contempt. Threat of disbarment. Jail cell. You know.”

Carisi gives a low whistle. “Okay, so, to get this straight… you yelled at a judge in open court, told the Lieutenant about what he’d said in confidence at the bench, then yelled at him _again_ in chambers and accused him of colluding with rapists? Who are also cops?”

Barba’s grin is all teeth and no humor. “Yes.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Carisi presses on, “you’re right about all of it -- he’s a piece of shit for doing what he did, like, at _best_ he’s a coward, but _man_.” He steals a look at Barba. “Did you really, literally _yell_? Like, did you raise your voice?”

Barba huffs out a laugh. “I did. You should have seen it.”

“Yeah,” Carisi says softly. “Yeah, I…”

 _I love you,_ is what he wants to say. But Christ, he doesn’t want to say it _now,_ in the middle of _this_ conversation. Not only because the mood is all wrong, but because this conversation isn’t _about_ him. Or them.

It’s about this little girl, and what those men did to her. _Are_ doing to her.

Carisi swallows. “What are you gonna do?”

Barba pauses, and when he replies his voice is slow and heavy. “Talk to Rita. Tell the DA. And after that, I don’t know.” He lets out an alarmingly shaky breath, and doesn’t protest when Carisi starts to stroke his back. “I suppose it depends on what happens tomorrow. And whatever ill-advised recklessness Liv takes the lead on, and whatever Dodds says to the media, and whatever the _union lawyers_ say to the media, and the girl and her family… I don’t know. I’d file an appeal, but I’ve shot myself in the foot on that one.”

Carisi wants desperately to pull some obscure legal ruling from his studies, to present it to Barba like a golden ticket, and the sadness in him isn’t because he can’t remember one, but from the fact that there _isn’t_ one. _This_ is where Barba’s trapped, even moreso that in that cell, and there’s no simple solution, no precedent.

No precedent, that is, until Barba sets one.

And Carisi feels a swell of pride when he realizes he’s pretty sure Barba will find a way to do just that. He knows the ADA would only scoff if he said that out loud, though, so he tries to find different words of comfort.

“The Lieutenant and Chief Dodds have got your back,” he says after a minute. “I mean, even if they can’t say so in public, you know they do.”

“I do know,” Barba murmurs. He leans into Carisi, as if to say _and I know you have my back, too._

They simply sit there for a few minutes, and if the silence is unhappy it’s not because of anything between them. No, it’s because of something they’re both up against, and Carisi doesn’t _care_ how many cops Barba’s up against: they’re all dirty, they’re all wrong. They’re all criminals who disrespect the uniform just by wearing it, and he’ll be proud to stand at Barba’s side as the ADA puts them all away.

“You’re doing good, you know,” he can’t resist telling Barba. “I know you don’t -- I mean, days like this, they’re hard.” Barba hums in agreement. “But still,” Carisi continues, “no matter what, that little girl? She’ll always know she had people fighting for her. Liv, and Rollins, and you, you were all -- ”

“Don’t use the past tense,” Barba interrupts, and Carisi, horrified, snaps his mouth shut.

But Barba only shifts closer, his breath fluttering past Carisi’s cheek as he lays rests head on his shoulder. “We’ll figure something out,” Barba says quietly. “They’re not going to get away with charging her for her own rape. They’re not going to get away with anything.”

It doesn’t make sense, Carisi thinks, how Barba can speak so softly, so curled around him, yet with such vicious determination it raises goosebumps down Carisi’s arms. Again his heart swells with love, and again he lets it fill him without naming it out loud.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks. He’ll say it tomorrow, when they’re filling out their disclosure forms. Which they will be, first thing in the morning, because as stubborn as Barba is, he knows good advice when he hears it, even when it’s coming out of the mouth of a defense attorney.

Carisi never much liked paperwork, but he’s looking forward to this particular kind. And to the soft, sweet look he knows he’ll get when he says the words out loud -- because he doesn’t doubt, not for a moment, that Barba feels the same way. He hasn’t doubted it for some time, which surprised him at first, but not anymore. Not with his cheek against Barba’s hair, and Barba’s breath ghosting across his neck, and their legs tangled together and their arms draped around each other.

It’s terrible, what’s happening. And as much confidence as he has in Barba’s talent and relentlessness, Carisi can’t deny he has _some_ doubts about whether they’ll be able to turn this around. 

He’d like to take refuge in Barba’s arms, and the way it feels so right to be in them. But that’s not fair. Because, he reminds himself, this isn’t about him; this isn’t about about them.

It’s about this little girl, and how they need to do everything they can for her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always to @lambnoire for being my beta, and, in this instance, my Barisi Consultant. 
> 
> One of the reasons I love SVU so much is that "these are their stories" doesn't just mean the detectives / the squad; the show is, at its best and at its core, about the victims, and about a better world in which they are taken seriously and treated with respect, and have people fighting for them to get justice (that's what these characters do, and, fundamentally, that's why I love them). 
> 
> Hence this fic emphasizing that in the end, it's not about any character or fic, because they're not the most important ones. 
> 
> But yeah. This is partly based on a true story. I don't AT ALL mean to claim that a fucking piece of fanfiction could ever, ever be worthy of being a tribute to her, but I wanted to let people know that this shit, and worse, does really happen, and it would feel disrespectful not to say anything about it, or this specific case and the real little girl.
> 
> In 2008 in Washington, D.C., 11-year-old Danielle Hicks-Best was gang-raped by a group of men in her neighborhood. When she went to the police, they emotionally abused her, misled her, and dropped the case. A few months later, one of the men and his friends raped her again. This time the police not only failed to investigate, but they brought charges against her for filing a false report. She was sent to a juvenile detention facility.
> 
> The then-deputy chief, Peter Newsham, is currently D.C.'s Chief of Police.
> 
> As of 2015, Danielle was studying for her GED and wanted to become a lawyer and help victims of sexual assault. She loves SVU, which makes me so proud of and grateful for this show. 
> 
> You can read more about Danielle in this 2015 Washington Post profile, which is the most recent information I've been able to find about her: https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/magazine/a-seven-year-search-for-justice/2015/03/12/b1cccb30-abe9-11e4-abe8-e1ef60ca26de_story.html?utm_term=.adb36821b642
> 
> From the profile:  
> "Although The Washington Post usually does not identify rape victims, Danielle has chosen to go public. 'I used to be very closed off about it all,' she said, 'but I’m not ashamed anymore.'"


End file.
